Waiting for Turmoil

The rabbit in the orchestra. Was tuning its harp. 280 degrees at most she declared. It's just blood. Years of fruitless sex. Evolution not evolving. And so I am. Both perpetual and fleeting. As much as any comma is. Lost in the throes of rogue sentences. And ignorant paragraphs. As if the clock could measure. Or in any way quantify. The depth or currents of the ocean. Or speed up this drowning.

Life comes in sobs. Huffs of others' skin. Cloying and oppressive. Words like potions mark the start. And the finish. Liars tell their stories to the deaf. And I hear them.

Dull scissors cut out the paper dolls. Shaky hands unfold the results. I go too far. Too many of me. Too thin. Plain white rainbows sneak in after the rain. Offering a path to the sun, but no colorso at all. To accompany it.

The brake pedal in her heart full of fluid. The engine hot and trembling. With places she must go. Dirty pit stops on the road to nothing.

Lovers like roadkill.